


this wise and simple man

by Melkoring



Series: this wise and simple man [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, eivor is also trying to deal with things but slightly less slowly, some people fish to cope, tarben is dealing with his emotions slowly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29703186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melkoring/pseuds/Melkoring
Summary: Eivor likes Tarben. Tarben likes Eivor, but has things to think about first. But Eivor doesn't mind being patient.Also fishing.
Relationships: Eivor/Tarben (Assassin's Creed)
Series: this wise and simple man [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2182896
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Yeats poem 'The Fisherman'. 
> 
> I love Tarben.... a strong and tender baker man. There wasn't nearly enough Tarben/Eivor content so I have decided to fix that at once. 
> 
> I was going to post it in one big part but instead it's going to be a short collection of chapters. Nothing NSFW in this, but I'm also thinking of doing a followup part that will be mature.

It was the first thing that Eivor looked for whenever he stepped onto the dock: that soft whorl of steam and smoke coming from the bakery. The stench of stagnant water, sweat, and fish was too overwhelming to catch the smell of freshly baked bread, but he could see the plumes of Tarben’s fires above the roof of the barracks.

“Come by some time,” Tarben had told him one morning upon his return from East Anglia, still beaming from Oswald’s wedding. It had been a number of days ago but the sheer success of the alliance had him buzzing during the whole journey home (much to the annoyance of Nali, the ship’s cat and appointed captain while Eivor left the helm).

Eivor had raised his eyebrows at this. “Oh?” he said, trying to catch Tarben’s eyes before he turned his attention back to his work.

Tarben hummed softly. “I will teach you, so you can stop hanging around my window like a stray dog and start giving me a hand.”

“You leave the bread on the windowsill, you’re bound to get pests.”

“Aye,” Tarben said with a laugh. “And what a pest I have gotten.”

It was only a few days later when Eivor decided to take him up on that offer. Randvi had ordered him to take some time for himself before tackling the next inevitable issue. There was still Hytham to confer with, alliances to make, houses to build. He had promised to spar with Ceolbert, and Petra had been on his case about some wolves scaring the game away from the wrath of her bow.

But Tarben’s hut was ever-smoking, and his door ever open. With Randvi’s blessing to find some peace and quiet, he made his way down to the bakery.

Tarben was crouched in front of the door, washing his hands and his tools in a bucket of water. He looked up at Eivor as he approached, the loose hairs of his bun and beard flashing gold in the morning sun. “A welcome surprise, Wolf-Kissed,” he said, rising to his feet to greet Eivor in his arms. “I presume you’re here to be put to work?”

“If you’ll have me, and I hope you will.” Eivor smiled at him.

He waited while Tarben looked him up and down carefully. After an appreciative nod, he silently turned to head inside, Eivor close on his heels.

The loaves for the rush of the morning had already been put in to bake - however early Eivor woke up, it seemed that Tarben was always one step ahead. But there was still things to clean, dough to prepare, the oven to stoke. Morale had been low since Sigurd’s kidnapping, and so - invigorated with the positivity of a bright wedding and a brighter alliance - he had hoped to hold a feast in the evening. Still, there was much to prepare, even during his time supposedly away from it all.

It was hard to listen to any of Tarben’s instructions with him standing so close, Eivor was finding. He was so intent on his job, so sure in his movements, so willing to let himself get lost in the rhythmic motion of pouring, stirring, kneading. 

“Like this?” asked Eivor, doing it wrong. He smiled up at Tarben through a shower of flour that dusted off of his hand as he reached up to rub at his forehead. 

“No,” said Tarben bluntly. He moved to put his hands over Eivor’s, coming close and reaching around the girth of his waist. With a hum, Eivor pushed himself into that warmth. He let Tarben cover his fingers and pressed them down into the bread rhythmically, let him knead and push and rub the dough to the beat of Eivor’s breathing. “Like this,” he told him in that low and honeyed voice. “Have you any idea what you want?”

Eivor hummed, letting himself fall deeper into the comfort of the slow rhythm Tarben was pouring into his work. “I have some ideas,” he muttered, not deigning to hide the hunger in his voice.

Tarben grunted something quietly and then Eivor felt himself being pulled gently to one side so Tarben could move forward and make quick work of turning Eivor’s somewhat misshapen lump into a neat ball that looked uncannily close to being bread. “Oh? What flavours are you thinking? I’m thinking of honey and rosemary for my next batch.”

“What?” said Eivor, and then laughed quickly, “ah, right. Of course. That depends on what you have available, I suppose. I like the one you make with the peppercorns.”

He felt Tarben hum against him, still being held close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. He had fond memories of returning home from travelling Mercia’s relentless wilds and being greeted with the smell of wood-fire smoke and freshly baked bread. There was something unmistakably homely about it: there was Gunnar with his cornucopia of arros ever-overflowing and his forge blistering; there was Petra leaving a trail of red and waving to Wallace at the top of the hill as she drags to him the bounty of her latest hunt, Mouse and Dandelion Puff eager attendants to the feast of deer blood she was leaving in her wake; there was sleepless Randvi, tired and toiling at her table; and then there was Tarben, hidden inside his house but a fresh loaf steaming on the counter beside his door. Winters were by no means as bitter as in Norway, but the winds still stung his cheeks and bringands were in no short supply, so the memories served to keep a fire stoked in him enough to brave the unpredictable weather.

“I’ll teach you to make it next,” Tarben told him. He reached across his work station to pick through a number of different pots, Eivor being hit with a different spice’s perfume each time he opened another lid. He was handed a small mound of rosemary leaves and instructed to press a couple of the sprigs around the sliced pattern of another loaf that Tarben produced from a resting shelf. The dough had been proving on the side for an hour or so - one of the first of the batch that Tarben was so graciously allowing him to assist with - and had risen to twice its size.

“You’ll need to move just now,” Tarben said, making Eivor whine in comical upset as he let Tarben slip an arm around his waist and shuffle him tidily into a corner. Particularly when dressed in his armour, Eivor cut an impressive figure - by Norse standards, he was a little on the short and slender side, but he was still broad and fit enough to tower above those spindly Saxons. Tarben, on the other hand, was another beast entirely: thick set thighs, shoulders wide enough that he had to twist slightly when entering through his door, hands that could hold both of Eivor’s in a single one, roughened by battle and softened by the push and pull of dough. He stood over a head above taller than Eivor did, and it never failed to please Eivor the way he had to balance on the tips of his boots to brush the flour from his beard.

“Will you take this bowl and fill it with some water?”

“Aye,” Eivor said, swiping it from the corner of the work station. It only took a second to run outside and fill it up from a barrel of fresh water Tarben had lugged down the hill from the well that morning.

“I will admit Eivor,” Tarben began when he had returned, in a way that made Eivor turn quicker than when on the hunt and almost spill half the bowl, “you make baking infinitely more difficult, and unquestionably more enjoyable.” 

Eivor found himself laugh shortly. “If you’re trying to flirt with me you aren’t very good at it. Your flyting never was very good either.”

Under the flour-caked bush of Tarben’s moustache and beard, Tarben chuckled. “And your flirting was a lot better before you began to judge mine.”

Eivor put down the bowl of water. “So, you have known that I’ve been flirting with you all this time. How long?”

Tarben’s face remained frustratingly placid, though the hairs of his moustache twitched indicating a hidden smile beneath. “Not the whole time. For a few months now,” he stated. “I’m afraid you’re not quite as subtle as you think.”

“A few months?” Eivor repeated, paling slightly.

“Since you’ve been back from Lunden, at least.”

“Since  _ Lunden _ ?”

“You seem upset.”

“I’m not upset. Aye, just astounded. You never said anything! Not to tell me to stop, or to continue, just let me fawn! I feel a fool now.”

“Hush, not a fool,” Tarben corrected him, his voice gentle and low enough to nearly be silenced by the pop and crackle of the fire. “I had some things to think about that have made it… difficult,” he said. His words were slow and careful, like his fingers working on the dough. “I confess, though, I did not want you to stop.”

Eivor hummed thoughtfully. With a careful eye on Tarben’s reaction, he slipped forward, close enough to reach up and run a hand down the slope of his shoulder. It was barely a movement, a ghost of a touch, but it produced a shiver that wracked Eivor even deep under his furs.

Tarben did not move back: a good sign. But neither did he push forward as eagerly as Eivor hoped into his touch. 

Eivor swallowed the bubble of doubt that rose in his throat. “Am I to take this as a confession then?” The question came out quieter than he had meant.

Tarben was silent for a good moment, but when Eivor moved to pull away he felt a warm hand close around his wrist.

“It is not a confession,” Tarben said. The long awaited response was chiller than Eivor had expected it to be. But, it seemed that Tarben was not done; his lips moved as though he wanted to say words, but instead he found his fingers itching instead and began to grind the restlessness away into the dough. 

Eivor waited patiently. He squeezed the shoulder that was back under his palm.

“There are things I want to say, and things I want to do,” Tarben continued, “but there are things that I must still work out. I am fond of you, Eivor. I basked in the attention you gave me, and I did not want it to stop. I am sorry for that, and I am sorry that I must sort out my head before I can let myself…” Tarben caught Eivor’s gaze and held it for a long while, before the weight of the world seemed to hit them both once more and it finally dropped away. Tarben cleared his throat to fill the silence that followed.

“I must have some time to think.”

“You can have all the time in the world, Tarben.”

“I could not ask that of you.”

“And yet I would give you all that, and more.”

The hand around his wrist dropped and the slight pressure was replaced for an instant on the curve of Eivor’s jaw, thumbing at the loose hairs of his beard for less time that it took him to realise what had happened. Then, it was gone, and the cold air came back once more.

With the last batch pricked and prodded with a bouquet of different sprigs and spices, and a new shelf of fresh loaves resting to the side, Tarben stepped back and clapped his hands to rid himself of the final layer of flour that had settled onto his skin. 

“I should get these loaves in to bake so you have some fresh for the feast.” Tarben peered easily over Eivor’s shoulders, spying the orange and pink of the setting sun worming their way across the horizon. “You should return to Randvi, she’ll be missing you. Should I escort you back to the longhouse?”

With a hesitance unbecoming of a viking clan leader (or, at the very least, the acting leader while Fulke still had her claws in Sigurd’s back), Eivor pulled himself away from Tarbem. “I will manage myself tonight. Tend to your bread, baker.” He clapped one last hand on Tarben’s shoulder and laughed. “I will see you later this evening.”

“This evening,” came the echo. And Eivor left him to the smoke, and the flour, and his thoughts.

That evening came and went. They spoke, and laughed, and drank just as always, the bread tasting all the sweeter, Eivor found, being made and his and Tarben’s hands together. All the while Eivor could feel Dag’s eyes glaring into his back as he lounged with the others, simmering quietly next to Sigurd’s empty seat like a pot threatening to boil over. Festivity was an elusive beast without his brother there to lead the hunt. It was difficult to throw himself into the laughter and merriment when every moment was another one lost to Fulke, and he had only Tarben’s hand pressed subtly on the small of his back to keep him grounded.

“Dag will soften,” Tarben told him, as they lingered at the threshold of Eivor’s quarters as their party began to diminish as the next morning sun began to rise.

Eivor barked out a laugh. “You clearly don’t know Dag. I had hoped a feast would endear him to me a touch more, but it seems he’s more stubborn than an ox.”

There was that gentle touch, back on his cheek and quick as ever. “He’ll come around, or he won’t. Either way, you will deal with it as best you can.”

“You have too much faith in me,” Eivor said, and it made Tarben laugh in that low and rumbling manner of his. It reminded Eivor of sitting on the moors and basking in the twilight, listening to the distant thunder and boil of clouds as typical Mercian weather wreaked havoc across the lands.

“I have just as much as you deserve, and a little more to boot.”

That night Eivor slept, warm and alone.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite Tarben’s unwavering faith, Dag did not soften. First it was the glares, which were bearable if not uncomfortable, but then came the accusations, a ceasefire of criticism that came at him as he tried to take his place in Sigurd’s throne to handle some of the petty domestic disputes that came hand-in-hand with running a village. It had been difficult, but with enough gritted teeth and diplomacy that he could muster from deep within himself to pull through.

Words had been one thing but actions were another: the moment Dag had raised his axe it had sealed his fate. He’d come charging at him one morning, pulling Eivor out of his much needed rest far earlier than he would have liked.

“Eivor!  _ Eivor _ !” It had echoed around the hollow roof of the longhouse, pounding out of time with the ache of Eivor’s head and heart. “Face me, Eivor!”

As though Odin himself took pleasure in the show, the winds picked up as Eivor crossed out of the longhouse. He had taken barely a stop before Dag was squaring up in his face like the wild hogs Eivor met out in the Mercian wilds, bearing his teeth and his weapon. “Stop there, Wolf-Kissed!” he bellowed. Spit flew from his mouth, hitting Eivor’s face as he halted not a foot away from his nose. “This ends now.”

Eivor resisted the urge to jump him like a feral cat. “Dag,” he said, swallowing down something that tasted sour. This was the last problem that he needed to add to his ever-growing list. “Turn around and walk away.”

Dag, brash and tall, met Eivor’s gaze with a fire that burned straight down from his eyes and into a snarl on his mouth. He jabbed an accusatory finger into Eivor’s chest, and once again Eivor found himself having to pat out the embers of his temper as Dag stoked the flames. “Your habits are not my own, Eivor.” 

Dag spun towards the crowd that had begun to swarm around them like flies - Tarben, Eivor noted with no small degree of discomfort, among them. He was a head taller than the Jomsvikinger in front of him and he watched Eivor with a grim confidence. 

Dag was still shouting as the crowd grew around them. 

“I do not flee responsibility for the sake of my glory. I stand firm with my people.” There was that axe, not an inch from his throat again. With his glare now back on Eivor, the cocksure shrug of his shoulders from addressing his audience grew crooked and hard with vitriol. There was something in his eyes behind the challenge, something painted, or something crazed, Eivor wasn’t quite sure.

“For many months I have stood at your side, keeping faith in Sigurd's judgement. Because I believed in him and his vision. Do as Eivor commands, he told me. And I have. Against my better judgement, I did as you have asked me. And where has that left us?” Dag spat on the dirt by Eivor’s feet. “Without a jarl, without a purpose, watching you chase glory around this land like a spooked hare.”

Eivor breathed deeply. “You could have come to me in confidence, Dag. But that offer is gone.”

“I have no need of it. My mind is fixed. Hear me all! I challenge Eivor for the leadership of this clan until Sigurd is safe home!”

It was getting harder and harder for Eivor to resist the itch of his fingers as they crept towards his axe. “Walk away, Dag!”

As soon as Eivor’s hand had begun to move, Dag pinned him with a stare. “No. We fight to the death.”

“You spew nonsense, Dag. This is absurd.”

“ _ Enough _ !” Dag, having had enough of Eivor’s refusal to match his challenge with the same vigour as him. He threw back his arms, and with it went the last shreds of Eivor’s patience. He met the challenge with his weapon in hand.

The circle was made quickly, bristling like an animal in itself.

“Please. Please, both of you!” Randvi pushed her way to the front of the longhouse steps.

Dag, in all his rage, ignored her. “Is that the best you can do?” he cried to Eivor instead.

Eivor’s axe collided with the hump of Dag’s shield, forcing them both backwards on their feet. With a grace quicker than his heavy frame might have suggested, Dag whipped back his shield to throw his full weight into a blow of his weapon. The blade clipped Eivor’s elbow as it pushed him backwards. He let the pain show on his face in a grimace, dodging blow after blow after blow of Dag’s fury.

“Eh!” Dag howled, as Eivor knocked him back with the butt of his great two-handed axe. “You’ve gone soft!”

The two hands crashed together, freezing as a cross under the pressure of Dag and Eivor’s matching strength.

“You walk a fool’s path, Dag,” Eivor warned, his body quaking with adrenaline. “This does not need to happen.”

“A coward to the last,” Dag spat, noting the blood at Eivor’s elbow. “Have courage, Eivor. I will make it quick.” The threat was paired with an underhanded strike that would have gouged a line in Eivor’s stomach had he not leapt to the side and knocked down Dag’s guard with a throwing axe to the back of his knee. “Pathetic!” he bellowed. It didn’t take long for him to climb back to his feet.

There came a blow to his axe. A blow to his legs. A blow to his head. 

Eivor parried them all expertly, breathing haggard.

Their weapons crossed between them again. This time, as Dag shifted his weight to growl close to Eivor’s face, Eivor twisted this handle and managed to hook it behind Dag’s already injured knee. Dag crashed to the floor like an oaken tree, Eivor atop his chest.

It was a short fight from that point onwards. Eivor went to punch him, and punch him, and punch him, once twice, again, and again. It was a tankard he could not stop drinking deeply from, his rage and bewilderment pouring out of him and into the blood that was now pooling under Dag’s head

The touch of a hand on his shoulder pulled him back to the circle. It was too light to be Tarben - Randvi, perhaps, in all her diplomacy and acumen? But it was Tarben he thought of as he let himself be dragged from Dag’s body, and Tarben that he looked for when he turned to face the crowd.

“Eivor… you… you -” Dag was groaning, a reddened hand clutching at the wounds on his face.

Then there was the decision to hand Dag his axe: it was a surprisingly easy one to make. Even with the eyes of a few dozen watchers searing into his skin, he felt only the quickly cooling gaze of his friend bleeding out beneath his knee. In the seconds that followed, as Dags thick fingers caked blood and dirt around the handle of his axe as Eivor pressed it into his chest, Eivor found himself thinking of snow stained with blood, and spears piercing mail, and the salt on his tongue with Dag’s voice the accompaniment to the chorus of oars and ocean.

He had fought to his last breath, as he was wont to do in life. Eivor felt it was the least he could do.

That night, he dreamt of seeing Odin in the blood that pooled behind Dag’s head like a crown.

**Author's Note:**

> (apologies for any mistakes! I have no beta read it because 99% of this was written at 3am)


End file.
